Night Flight

Everyday

demons patrolling night

amidst ordinary memories

make for substantial adjustments

   in dream subject

not to mention predicate, speaking

of running, fleeing, flight

from demons--

Amazing

one considers flying

at all, what with demons following,

temptation to hunker down strong--

   overwhelming,

that burrowing urge, but salvation

requires self-promotion,

so fly now--

Margaret resurrected a spooky prompt from Fireblossom for the weekend in the Imaginary Garden.

Fish Bait Tree

When it rains, you wonder

whether tears are right,

retreating to a corner

covered by catalpa umbrella.

Joy turns on a dime here,

followed by steady rain

so you wonder about tears,

hope, an array of excuses,

explanations for bruises,

the bean-heart of your tree

wilted following flowering,

pounding rain now drizzling,

promising sun behind tears.

And that’s the wonder of it,

how it changes like seasons,

calming after hurricanes

bring all the branches down.

You get on with your raking,

piling debris in that corner,

hoping for quick decomposition,

wondering about the weather,

planning for the next time it rains.

My offering for Björn Rudberg’s lovely prompt to the Real Toads: Swedish Poetry and Karin Boye

Lakeside Drive-In

There was that time when my mom offered
to take us to the drive-in with her friend
and we got to sit in the back seat together.
Not ideal, of course. I mean, chaperones

on a drive-in date? But it was all we had.
So we went, and I remember kissing you, even
with the grown-ups watching. And I can see,
even now when I close my eyes, your skinny

legs in skinny jeans, splayed out, and just
how serious you were about the whole affair.
In another year I’d get a boyfriend who lived
right next door to that very same drive-in

and I’d spend many an evening not watching
movies there. But that night, you and I
were on the cusp of something, on the line
between kids from camp who wrote letters

and young adults learning what pining meant.
That was it for us, as far as it went. Awkward
silence and downward glances were our style
next and every time we met hence, for years.

But that was the moment when we could see it
and touch it for the first time; what we’d
seek forever after. To see ourselves in
our lover’s eyes, to feel love in our bellies.

This is the last poem in my book SUPERPOWERS or: More Poems About Flying. I recently came across the above photo of a postcard from the real Lakeside Drive-In, which of course no longer exists. I was surprised by the intensity of my reaction to the photo and thought I’d share this poem again with the photo to accompany it. The poem is dedicated to Don Martin, who left us almost two years ago, far too soon.

6 A.M. on Tuesday

Waning dawns

at an open door

beckoning a bleary writer

to awe,

bitter coffee contrasted

with the sweet of birdsong,

crickets, sunstreaks

creaking over maple & mountain.

Soon mornings will require

a closed door,

strategies

for hunkering against cold,

the Holiday Season, the urge

to hibernate

under a mountain of quilts

with the furnace on.

This morning

pull on socks & sweater,

take what you can get,

grateful

for what you have been given.

Cheaters

At Thanksgiving, or a birthday

an uncle muttering I can’t read this

would borrow my grandmother’s glasses

or my mother would wear his to read

menus, rules of the game. I thought

all those adults had the same affliction

of the eyes. It must run in families.

Now I wear cheaters to read their emails.

Exactly 55 for Flash Fiction 55 at Real Toads!

As Long As We Are Able

Stay true to the sun, a beacon

behind clouds. Blue sky on your left

as grey blows over. No one’s listening

anyway, so stay true.

Birds flock after a storm, we gather

at the table. The cool air’s moved in.

Take what you can get in this life:

shelter, occasional sustenance.

    It’s enough.

Real Toads music prompt: The Valley by Los Lobos/David Hidalgo